


All I Had

by Darling_Jack



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And it sucks, Angst, Arthur Morgan Has Tuberculosis, Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack
Summary: The end comes sooner than any of them could have expected and Arthur is faced with a choice he never thought he'd have to make.[TW: suicide]
Comments: 43
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

Beaver Hollow was a hellish place; cold, dank, and sulfurous. A simple shift of the wind brought with it either the toxic fumes of the coal mines to the north, or a sickly, rotting stench from somewhere beyond the treeline. The mouth of the cave was still rusty with blood that no one had cared to wash away. The tension that had set within the gang was at best unbearable, at worst unlivable. 

Today it was worse than ever. 

Dutch woke in the foulest of moods and it seemed to be the fault of whosoever crossed his path. John had done his best to keep out of his way as much as he could without actually running off; he wasn’t keen on leaving Abigail to suffer Dutch’s rage alone— not with her packing in secret, waiting for a chance to slip away unseen. He did have to duck the odd object thrown in his general direction, but otherwise had an easy time avoiding Dutch’s ire, especially once Micah had slithered among them and lured the man into hushed talks of plans and plots. 

Even so, it wore on him. John knew he could only remain in camp for so long, his neck worn from constantly checking over his shoulder lest he be blindsided by a new fit of rage. Another tirade in the distance, this time directed at Bill, only solidified his decision to get out for a few hours. A crash of something glass and fragile against the ground, and a shout of surprise from Bill; John cringed back, certain he'd be next if he was spotted. 

Hunting. He’d go hunting. Pearson needed meat and there was nothing wrong with an escape into the woods for a few hours. He'd take Arthur along; even John wasn't foolish enough to go traipsing through Murfree territory without backup. He could use the time to discuss plans of their own, away from prying eyes and ears. Arthur always knew what to say, and John knew the man had returned; he’d spent the last few days south in the swamps, but his horse was tethered right beside Taima and Old Boy, so he must’ve come back that prior night. 

But John hadn’t seen him all day. He figured they simply had missed one another in all this time. Arthur was likely skirting the conflict erupting in the camp as well. Hesitantly, he ventured into the main clearing, expecting to find the man sitting at the fire with Charles, the pair sharing quiet glances in its glow.

The fire burned and roared and popped, with Charles sitting dutifully beside it, his face twisted, stern and solemn in equal measure. 

“You seen Arthur?” John asked, laying a firm hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Sleeping, last I saw, but that was a while ago. He probably went fishing. He’s got a lot on his mind.”

“Right… Gonna see if he’ll go hunting with me. You mind keeping an eye on Abigail and Jack while I’m gone?”

Charles’s gaze slid up to John’s face, the heaviness in the man’s words and the meaning behind them well received.

“I will. Check his tent first— see if his fishing pole is there.”

John offered a curt nod, stalking over to Arthur’s tent.

Surprisingly, the man was still inside, laid out on his cot despite the late hour, still covered in thick muck and still wearing his boots. Arthur had never been one to much care how or where he fell asleep, and in his old age had grown slower and more prone to exhaustion. Still, there was something similar to amusement that bubbled in John’s chest; it had been years since he’d found Arthur sleeping _this_ heavily so late in the day. Were the atmosphere of camp not quite so dire, John might have seen fit to mess with the man in some way, perhaps coaxing a live snake into his boot or pelting him with manure.

Instead, he settled on kicking at the post of Arthur’s cot. Simple, but pleasing all the same. 

“Hey, Arthur,” he waited, but nothing. John rolled his eyes; the man didn’t so much as shift. John huffed; kicking again, but harder. 

“Hey! Wake the hell up!” 

A response this time; one he wasn't expecting. Arthur’s lips split into an unsettling wheeze, parted in agony.

A pang of unease; a strike of fear. John reached out, shaking Arthur— first gently, then quite violently, again urging the man to wake up, the desperation leaking into his voice.

“Hey, Charles!” He called out, summoning the man with ease, “Somethin’s wrong, I can’t… he won’t…” John swallowed thick, “He ain’t wakin’ up.” 

Immediately, Charles was at Arthur’s side, his hands cupping the man’s pallid face. A tight frown spilled over his features, clearly a mask for something far more dire. He laid a hand upon Arthur’s chest. The look on his face was all kinds of wrong. A cold sweat ran down John’s spine.

“Is… is he…”

Charles refused to look at John, eyes fixed fast on Arthur.

“.... You… should go get Dutch.”

So he did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I accidentally wrote another fic... Hope this one doesn't hurt TOO bad!
> 
> We're in for 5 pretty short chapters here folks, so remain seated with your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside the boat! I'll see you on Friday! ♡


	2. Chapter 2

He’d exploded. Of course he had. John had burst into his tent unannounced, only to pause and stare at him for a moment with the look of a lost puppy. 

“Arthur’s not waking up,” John whimpered after Dutch’s lengthy tirade, and god if the man could’ve sounded any more _pathetic_ ….

“Good god, if you two could stop acting like children for _once_ and realize we have actual problems now—”

“No, Dutch he— Arthur— ”

“ _Arthur_ is fine,” Dutch snapped, “Ain't the first time he's come back wasted, doubt it'll be the last.”

He felt a fury burst within his chest, “Dutch, he ain't— ”, only to be cut off once more.

Dutch was clearly not in the mood to listen. Instead, he jabbed a finger in John’s direction threateningly, not unlike a parent scolding an unruly child, “I do _not_ have time for this; if that lazy bastard _is_ drunk, I will skin the both of you for this.”

Dutch pushed past John, face twisted in anger and annoyance. Why they insisted on including him in their petty, childish squabbles, he would never know. Rolling like a darkened sea, he stormed over to Arthur’s tent finding Grimshaw and Charles there, murmuring worried words to one another.

“ _Move aside,_ ” Dutch pushed through, determined to put all this _fuss_ to rest. “Arthur, get the hell up.”

Nothing. No reaction. Not so much as a twitch. He felt a slight twinge of apprehension at that. He chose to ignore it. 

He took a moment to stare at Arthur’s prone form before shaking him roughly, “Stop fooling around and get up." 

“Mr. Van der Linde-” Grimshaw started, though his venomous glare quickly quieted her.

“Arthur!” he roared, loud enough to shake the canvas of the tent.

And paused. 

Because even John, who was dismissive at the best of times, flinched at the furor in his voice. Arthur, despite his bravado and stern nature, had never been one to flippantly ignore shouting, especially from Dutch. Hell, oftentimes the man would startle when Dutch even laughed a little too loud and even as a grown man that raw _fear_ could still be caught in the odd flash across his face, if one knew where to look.

But this time there was nothing. 

Arthur remained still. The only sign he was alive was the painful wheeze of too-short breaths.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dutch asked, unable to pry his eyes away, “Is he hurt?”

“No,” Grimshaw placed a gentle hand on Dutch’s shoulder, “Couldn’t find a scratch on him… He… He’s burning up. Ain’t never felt a man run that hot.”

“Well— don’t just stand there! Do something!” Dutch shouted, as though he hadn’t seen the damp cloth stuck to Arthur’s forehead.

“Don’t you shout at me, Van der Linde,” Grimshaw hissed, “I-I’m doin all I can.”

“Get a damn doctor in here- something!”

“Ain’t nothing a doctor can do,” Charles finally spoke up, prying the words from the tightness in his chest, “He’s… He told me he was sick, but I didn’t think…”

_“Sick?”_ Dutch’s head whipped to Charles, “Sick _how?_ He didn’t say nothin ‘bout bein _sick_.”

“It’s TB,” Charles said, trying so incredibly hard to keep his voice steady, “Tuberculosis. He… It ain’t good. I didn’t think it’d be this bad so quick.” 

“That's not— why didn’t he tell me?”

Though his voice had softened slightly, they could feel the unhinged rage rolling off of Dutch in waves,thick and chilling.

“Maybe he ain’t told you cause you been acting crazy,” John muttered, though a stern swat from Grimshaw quieted him easily.

“Mr. Swanson is getting him some morphine,” she added quietly, “Best we can do is… is to keep him comfortable and hope he fights this off.”

“Hope...” Dutch parroted, voice hollow as he stared at the sheen of sweat on Arthur’s face, “... Right.”

He kicked them all out once they had done all they could for Arthur, wiping the sweat from his brow, tossing his boots aside, administering what meager medicines they could scrounge up. The man remained asleep through it all, though he stirred slightly at the pinch of the needle in his arm. The morphine seemed to take the edge off; Arthur was no longer moaning weakly in the grip of pain. In fact, he wasn't doing much of anything. Dutch wasn't sure if that was better.

He didn't know why he stayed; there wasn't anything anyone could do, and Dutch was busy, but he stayed.

Within the hour, Micah had wormed his way by Dutch’s side. The man had come in, one foot thumping down on the end of the bed, arms resting against the inclined knee, bearing a casualty that felt entirely wrong in such a somber atmosphere. 

“Shame about Morgan,” he said, a twisted look of faux-pity on his face, “Knew he’d end up kicking the bucket sooner or later… That cough of his was bad business. Maybe it’s best if we put the ol’ cowpoke out to pasture, seeing as he ain’t likely to recover.” 

Those words needled at Dutch like nothing else, boring into his bones and sticking there. Though there was a measure of truth to them, Dutch found himself boiling with anger where a tired grief had taken hold. Micah seemed oblivious to the shift in the temperature of the room. 

"What do you want?" Dutch growled, his fist curled tight into the fabric of his pants.

“Just thought I ought to let you know we’re all set for that job— though seeing as Morgan won’t be joining us, I guess we gotta adjust a few things.” Micah announced with as much tact as Dutch had come to expect. The man frowned, eyes wandering over Arthur's prone form. Predatory, in a strange way. 

“Go without me,” Dutch couldn't even dredge up the energy to tell him off proper; hell, he couldn’t even find the words to explain just how _wrong_ Micah’s presence was.

“Pardon?”

“Do not make me repeat myself,” he kept his reply short, brisk. Micah treading on dangerous ground now, questioning him so blatantly, and the fool was none the wiser.

“Look,” Micah let out a huff, straightening, “If you’re all pissy cause of what I said just— You ain’t even gotta _do_ anything, Dutch. I know you love Arthur so, as do we _all,_ I mean, the man is like a brother to me, but I think it’s for the best if we put him out of his _misery._ ”

Dutch’s face twisted for a moment, a flash of emotion dark and volatile, those words sitting bloated in his mind, heavy and swollen with… _something_. Some emotion, something vile, threatening to burst out given just the slightest pressure. He didn’t dare poke at it any more than necessary. Rather, he grit his teeth tight and spat:

_“Get out.”_

His voice carried more vehemence than he thought possible. Apparently Micah thought the same, his eyes wide as he took a step back, cowed, for once, in his presence. Backpedaling over his words, trying again to endear himself to the man he'd just so callously offended.

“Boss, I— ”

“ _Out._ ”

His tone left no room for concession. No room for argument.

Arthur _would_ be fine. He always was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch shows up and continues to be a whole ass. Damn it Dutch, can't we get a *little* comfort in this H/C fic?
> 
> .... no. No we can not. See y'all soon! ♡♡♡


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide, mentions of assisted suicide

Arthur had been sick before. He’d been sick plenty of times, prone to mingling with strangers as he was, but he’d only been _this_ sick once before.

He was a boy, barely 16 at the time, when he caught the flu. He’d tried to hide it then, too. He tried to power through, to ignore the aches and pains and fever so as not to be a hindrance to Dutch and Hosea. They were riding out in Montana, just the three of them. The curious couple and their unruly son- Grimshaw and Bessie, then young themselves, had been put up in the nearest city so they might be spared the grim realities of life on the road.

The realities Dutch and Hosea now had to face. 

They hadn’t noticed how quiet Arthur had become; the boy, usually boisterous, had been somewhat of a nuisance in past weeks. His quietude was well appreciated if anything until he wordlessly slipped from the saddle of his horse and collided hard with the road. 

It was weeks before he was back on his feet. Long, painful weeks of Dutch and Hosea working in shifts, sitting vigil in that small shed they’d stumbled across far from any lick of civilization. Weeks of Arthur barely conscious, burning with a vicious fever, sobbing dryly in pain, unable to keep anything down long enough to make a damn bit of difference. He quickly lost every ounce of weight they'd painstakingly put on him over the last years. Delirious, Arthur called for his father, begging forgiveness for transgressions long since buried. He called for his mama which neither of the older men could stomach long, quickly shushing the terrified boy and urging him to sleep. 

On the worst nights they sat together, each gripping tight to one of Arthur’s trembling hands. On the _worst_ night the only noise to fill the air was Arthur’s fevered rambling; neither man spoke, drowning in grief they hadn’t earned over a son who wasn’t yet dead. 

Arthur recovered. He survived and the ordeal was forgotten over the years. Hosea babied the boy a little more than usual in the following months, still haunted by his brush with death. 

Dutch did the opposite. 

The spark of many loud, lingering arguments, Dutch chose to distance himself, keeping Arthur at arm’s length for a good while, unwilling to suffer that kind of pain and fear again. Despite his attempts to be subtle, or as subtle as Dutch ever was, Arthur noticed. Hosea noticed. Hell, the women noticed. Arthur wilted without his attention and blamed himself; the others rightly blamed Dutch and did so repeatedly and with great enthusiasm. 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever apologized to Arthur. He wasn’t sure he’d ever actually made amends and closed that distance he had wedged between them.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance. 

Absently, he took Arthur’s hand in his own, listening to every stifled gasp, every rattling wheeze, every hitch where he was just certain Arthur’s chest would still. The heat that radiated off of Arthur’s skin was borderline unbearable. Yet Dutch still burned with annoyance. Arthur should have said something. If he had just said something, if he had told them what was happening, Dutch could have planned. He could’ve found a solution and they wouldn’t be stuck here now with all these leads going to waste with Arthur bedridden. 

In equal measure, he hated himself violently for even thinking such things. 

By now the camp had quieted, the sun long since gone. He wondered if perhaps it might not be better to have someone else take his place by Arthur’s side; he sat vigil on instinct alone, half his mind set on lecturing the man once he awoke. But there were things that needed his attention, plans set in motions, more important things to do than— 

_Than—_

A mumble, incoherent and broken, pulled him from his wallowing; Arthur’s breathing had picked up into a rapid staccato, impossibly quicker than it had been moments before. He tossed his head weakly, his face screwed into a picture of agony.

“Arthur?” 

His voice was a whisper; disgustingly hopeful.

“No…” Arthur murmured, tossing his head, “No… ‘tch…”

Dutch was struck with a pang of dread; he squeezed Arthur’s hand all the tighter.

“Arthur… son…”

Arthur cracked his eyes open, ever so slightly, dissolving into a coughing fit he simply had no energy to fight. Dutch scrambled to grab him a glass of water, something to soothe his boy’s throat. Arthur at least had the wherewithal to weakly draw his hand up to cover his mouth

He recoiled when he saw the speckles of blood smeared across Arthur’s arm. 

“Jesus…” he hissed.

“‘Tch….” Arthur whispered, hoarse and weak, “Dutch we gotta… “

He tried to push himself up, tried to prop himself on his arms, tried to stand, but Dutch pushed him back down with sickening ease. 

“Just rest, Arthur, you’re… Don’t get up.”

“T-the Donnellys… We… Dutch we…”

Dutch furrowed his brows, staring owlishly at his son. He hadn’t heard that name in years; they’d robbed the Donnellys blind over a decade ago. It had been a long, arduous con, one that took nearly six months, where just about everything went wrong.

Why Arthur would bring that up now was beyond him. 

“What do you…?”

Arthur tried again, attempting to push himself up once more, this time with more fervor, his eyes wild and panicked, “T-The Donnellys… Dutch I gotta… I’m late… I’m late I gotta… ‘Sea is gonna…”

Dutch again pushed him back, this time speaking more sternly, ire raising in his chest, “Arthur, stay down.”

Perhaps he had thoroughly exhausted himself, lost in the haze of days long gone, or perhaps Dutch’s words broke through, because Arthur didn’t try to get up again.

“Dutch… ‘Sea is… Where… He…”

Dutch pursed his lips tight.

He didn’t know how to answer that. Were he to tell the truth, he might only upset the boy further, if Arthur could understand him at all. But to lie, to give Arthur false hope for some greater comfort…

“He’ll be back soon, kid. Just rest. The job can wait until tomorrow.”

Kid. He hadn’t called Arthur that in years; not since he was an _actual_ kid. For whatever reason the epithet slipped out easily. He refreshed the cloth on Arthur’s forehead. His temperature hadn’t waned in the slightest. Neither had Dutch’s grip on Arthur’s hand.

Arthur stared at the ceiling of his tent, lost in the haze of illness, breath noisy and lungs paining.

“Always did like you best,” he mumbled, nearly unintelligible, “Liked you most.”

Dutch’s own breath hitched at this. He gently ran a thumb over Arthur’s cheekbone, wiping a bead of sweat.

He knew. It had never been a secret that, despite Hosea’s favoritism, Arthur had always preferred Dutch’s company. The pair held a bond that was hard to deny, regardless of Dutch’s stubborn attempts to do so. 

“Just rest, Arthur… You’ll be okay. By morning, you’ll be back on your feet.”

A moment. Silence, filled only by the rattle in Arthur’s chest.

“No....” Arthur wheezed, “... Don’t think I will.”

Dutch’s hand moved to his chest, rubbing small circles. He hoped he was being some measure of soothing; he certainly didn’t feel as though he was doing the man any kind of good.  
“Why didn’t you tell me, Arthur?” Dutch asked, quiet. Soft. 

And he swore Arthur smiled at that, if only slightly.

“Won’t have done us good…” an agonizing breath, “You was… stressed. Didn’t want folk worried.”

They sat in quiet, the pair of them, unwilling to disrupt the stillness that had settled around them. Even the camp was quiet for once.

Arthur’s eyes fell on Dutch, unfathomable. Dutch had always rather liked those eyes; blue as the sea, bright as the stars, always mischievous, always thinking. Now though, they had grown dull and bloodshot, dappled red from where coughing had burst vessels, glazed over and distant. Searching, as though Arthur weren’t quite sure where he was. Hazy, as though he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Dutch you remember… remember Bessie? ‘Member how she…? I… I don’t… Don’t... ”

Dutch smoothed a hand over Arthur’s hair, “Hush, don’t… don’t go getting yourself worked up.”

“No, Dutch… I…” he swallowed, fighting back a coughing fit; the pain was evident in the way his breath hitched and held, how he squeezed his eyes tight, “Please, I didn’t… I don’t... “

“Arthur stop. Just… just stop.”

But Arthur just stared at him, intense as he could manage, more lucid than he had been in hours. Dutch’s eyes prickled with tears. 

It wasn’t something they had ever talked about; a quiet sin, gone entirely unmentioned for fear that speaking it aloud might somehow unleash some new suffering upon the earth.

But Bessie was in agony. Lingering. Festering, rotting in a living body until God would see fit to finally bring her misery to an end.

And they didn’t want to wait that long. 

Not while every second saw this once-stoic woman sobbing and delusional, set upon by unseen demons. Hosea could barely stand to look at her any more; all vestiges of the woman he knew, the woman he loved, gone. Dead, far before she was.

Dutch and Arthur made the decision for him. He knew; at least, they hoped he knew. They thought he knew. Not that they would ever torture the man by making him admit it. 

Dutch handled her next dose of morphine. Hosea clutched her hand tight while he did. 

And they never spoke about it again.

Dutch stared at the bottle Swanson had left on Arthur’s table, at the syringe he’d left beside it. He listened as Arthur’s breath quickened again, the man dissolving into a fit of coughs worse than the last. Arthur sagged back into the mattress, his hand limp in Dutch’s. A plea in his eyes, half-lidded.

“I _can’t,_ ” Dutch admitted quietly, “Don’t make me, Arthur, I… I can’t…” 

Arthur’s only response was a short, gasping breath. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe the blood from his chin. He, too, was festering. Rotting from the inside out, slowly drowning in his own blood and absolutely terrified. 

Dutch had never been good to Arthur. 

It is only now that he can admit it. Only now, with the end laid out before him, that he can acknowledge just how horrible he had been all these years to the one person who expected nothing of him. 

With the guilt of all those years upon his shoulders, every cruel word and flippant misdeed playing over and over in his head, Dutch did the only thing he could think to do. 

He left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just isn't one of my fics if it doesn't have a healthy dose of angst, a sprinkling of soft-Dutch, and hella flashbacks, now is it? ♡


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW Suicidal thoughts

Arthur had a choice to make.

He watched the darkness cast imagined shapes along the ceiling of his tent. His heart thundered in his chest, his blood cold as ice and his stomach filled with stone. He tried to quiet the whispers in his head, the pull in his muscles, the ache in his lungs. He couldn’t, and that weight in his chest pulled him down only further. 

The bottle of morphine was gone from his table. 

Despite the odd hour, he couldn’t sleep; he’d, in fact, just woken up. He’d been doing that a lot; sleeping without meaning to, wasting the day, waking at odd hours. Wasting his time, resting while the gang slowly festered and starved around him. It wasn’t intentional. These days, he couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep for fear that he might not wake up. Instead he’d startle awake at random, sometimes hours, sometimes days later, usually not remembering nodding off in the first place. That's worse, he thinks, that he might just drop dead at any moment. Usually, someone would have kicked him awake by now, but as of late, nobody would. They didn’t this time, either. 

The camp was quiet; far more quiet than it had been in years, affording him the unfortunate opportunity to think.

 _A hell of a thing,_ the doctor had said. 

And he wasn’t wrong.

He’d’ve been happier to die quick; to get gunned down in a fight without ever having to agonize over his own mortality. Hell, he’d prefer a lingering _gutshot_ to _this._

Arthur had seen tuberculosis kill before. It was neither a good nor a dignified death; men drowning in their own blood, wasting away, unable to halt the disease so determined to see them crumble. He saw what those men became, in the days before their deaths. He’d witnessed the bone-deep, irreparable fatigue, the fathomless delirium of fever, the way their skin sallowed and sank against their bones. Tuberculosis rotted them from the inside out, painfully slow, reducing even the greatest of men to shivering, mumbling husks.

The same shivering, mumbling husk he had been days before. He got better; marginally. He could stand; that was about it. He barely remembered a thing of that night, but it was enough.

And he had a choice to make. 

He could let himself rot; could stick through til the end and hope he could shepherd the dying gang to better days, perhaps use these last moments before he withered away entirely to finally do some good. He could give his life meaning, in the end, and let himself die painfully slow under the apathetic gaze of a family who couldn’t give two shits about him in the hopes that maybe, maybe all of this could be worth something.

Or he could not. 

He could send folk on their way, encourage them to get gone the minute Dutch’s back was turned and to not look back no matter what. He could end things now, save them all the suffering. He could admit that the past twenty-odd years were a series of mistakes and that their time was long since over. He could come to terms with the fact that, once again, he was truly, utterly alone, and the only way this would end is if he ended it himself.

To that end, he thought. 

Arthur swallowed thick, a feat already made difficult by the beast settled in his lungs, though eased by a heavy draw of whiskey. His hands shook from fever or drink, but maybe at this point it didn’t matter much which. The thoughts that so ruthlessly plagued him were all too common these days but rarely so loud. Rarely so definitive and cold. Decisive. A plan. A statement, not a question.

He’d already told them to go; everyone who mattered was told to slip away quick as they could. Everyone who deserved a second chance, he offered it. He hoped they’d take it, but that wasn’t up to him anymore. 

He could barely get out of bed; he felt himself slowly dying with every cough, every wheezing gasp. He’d tried to ignore it; he’d tried to push it aside and keep his head down and just keep working. If not jobs, then chores. But that, too, had become herculean. 

He took another pull from the bottle, surprised to find it mostly empty already. He’d just lifted it from the supply cart this morning. 

From here, if he tried, he could just barely make out the glow of Dutch’s tent. Empty, he figured, as Micah and his fools were currently settled by the campfire, whispering of lies and deceit, no doubt. Something stuck in his chest; he drew in a wheezing breath. 

Unsteadily, Arthur pushed himself upright, allowing a painful fit of coughs to overcome him for a moment, certain it would be his last. When again his vision cleared, and he could force the smallest bit of breath into his lungs, he stood, ignoring the way his vision washed black and his legs wavered beneath him. His gait was unsteady, yet another thing he’d stubbornly decided to blame on the drink, as he picked his way over. If nothing else, and perhaps there was nothing else, he had to talk to Dutch first. Though betrayal sat heavily in his gut, anger and sorrow and guilt all at once. He didn’t have another option though. Dutch would know what to do. 

Another swig of whiskey, this time quicker. _Hosea_ would have known what to do. Dutch would merely prattle on about plans, and escapes, and money; things Arthur had no need for any more. But he’d ask anyhow- a conversation this time, rather than an incoherent plea.

There were no eyes on him as he crossed Beaver Hollow; no predatory gaze or concerned gawks. These days, folk seemed to mind their own business, too afraid for their own lives to worry about his. He didn’t mind that. He was well used to it. He was a workhorse, that’s all. A means to an end, and they had more important things to do.

Abigail and John bickered nearby. As he passed, he laid a hand, briefly, on John’s shoulder, wordless. He knew the look of a man waiting for an opportunity; knew that Abigail already had them packed. Tonight, then, Arthur figured. 

But he didn’t stop to ask.

“Dutch,” he muttered, low, suddenly awash with humiliation as he pushed into the man’s tent. Regret, perhaps, was slightly more accurate, “Can I… can we…”

“What is it now, Arthur?” Dutch snapped, not bothering to look up from his papers. His hand was knotted tight into his hair. Neither of them had fared particularly well these past weeks; Arthur couldn’t say which of them looked worse. 

But Arthur _was_ dying. Dutch merely felt as though he was.

He had denied Arthur’s plea for reprieve; Arthur remembered that much. That in itself stung, though deep in his chest he knew it had been unfair to ask. Though his memories grew foggy, he knew Dutch deeply regretted having to do the same with Bessie. He felt some measure of guilt for begging for such a thing. 

Anger, too. 

“I jus’...” he bit back a cough, pushing back the rising wave of fear he felt each time knowing each fit might well be his last, “Jus’ thought maybe we… could…”

He watched Dutch’s face twist and mangle into something unpleasant, but the man’s stare remained stubbornly fixed to whatever he was so hopelessly engrossed in. The man’s tone dropped dangerously, assuming a register Arthur had only ever heard used for the most dire of threats.

_“Are you drunk?”_

“I—”

Arthur stumbled over his words, unsure of how to answer when he was blatantly and visibly drunk, the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey still hanging loosely in his grasp. 

_“You fucking useless_ _—_ We need you _working._ We need you _able_. You finally get back on your feet, and you… just…. What good are you to me if you can’t even stand?”

Arthur merely blinked at the man slowly, processing his words. That, too, was an answer, even if he’d yet to ask the question. That, too, was a reply to thoughts he hadn’t yet spoken. 

It was not quite the conversation he’d expected. His mind slowly, painfully caught up with Dutch’s words. 

And weirdly, he was rewarded with a memory. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Arthur :(


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied suicide, steer clear!

Last time this had happened, Arthur was twenty-four. His family was dead and buried; two tiny crosses now a permanent fixture in someone else’s yard. A new family would move into that small house on the edge of town; maybe they’d put a rug over the bloodstains, or maybe just tear up the floor and pretend they hadn’t seen it at all. 

Last time this had happened, it had taken a week for Arthur to sneak away from camp, blind drunk and somehow still painfully sober. They’d let their guards down. Maybe it was intentional. They knew what he was like. They’d read his journal, seen first hand the heavy sorrow he carried inside him, well before his Eliza and Isaac were gone. They left that gun out in the open, had turned their backs just long enough for him to make his escape. And he did; he grabbed that old cattleman and stumbled off on foot. He didn’t take his horse. He didn’t need to. They were camped at the edge of a fathomless river, dark and churning, the kind that would swallow him whole without a second thought. 

Last time this had happened, Dutch had found him. Dutch, woefully underprepared for what he was about to see, had found him. Not _‘come to get him’_ , Arthur realized, but rather stumbled across him at an unfortunate moment. Arthur hadn’t even noticed, too far gone, too lost in the swirling depths below to hear his approach. 

Too focused on the bite of iron on his tongue to pay any attention to Dutch’s shout. 

He honestly couldn’t remember much of what happened after that, but he remembered the next morning, when Dutch sat at the foot of his bed with that forlorn look on his face. It aged him terribly. 

_“Talk to me next time,”_ he had said simply. A plea, more than anything. If Dutch could cry, and Arthur still wasn’t sold on the idea that he could, he would have. 

If Arthur could have felt anything but bitter, raw hatred for the man in that moment, he might’ve cried too. 

And Dutch tried. He _did._ He kept an eye on Arthur, carefully, after the business with Bessie and was gentle with him when it seemed his affliction had again reared its ugly head. Arthur had sat for hours debating, discussing, deciding with Dutch, whispering out of earshot of Hosea. He had gone with Dutch to speak with the local doctor and learned more in that moment about terminal illness than he had ever expected to in his life. He had been there as Dutch drew the syringe full of morphine. He watched as the light finally faded from Bessie’s eyes. 

Dutch knew that stuck with him; he had to, even if they never brought it up. Dutch had seen him then eyeing the bottle, thinking. Planning himself. They never kept morphine in camp again; not until Swanson. 

But the thoughts remained, as much as Arthur hated them. As sick as he was to suffer those thoughts, embarrassing and childish as they were, the best he could do was quiet them for a while, enough so he could push through his days. 

Over time, though, Dutch forgot. Or perhaps Arthur just got better at hiding it. Or maybe neither of them cared anymore. Whatever it was, Dutch worked Arthur harder, minded him a little less, watched less closely. Arthur dealt with it though. He was an adult, he could handle it, but somehow, unspoken through all those years, that plea stood firm.

Clearly, though, it wasn’t unspoken. 

It was _ignored_.

The sun was already brightening the horizon. 

He stumbled out of Dutch’s tent; even the dim light of the early morning was far too bright; the muffled conversations peppered around the camp far too loud. 

And that was it. 

By the time the sun began to set, Arthur’s legs burned fiercely and his chest grew heavy and tight as it did before a devastating fit of coughs. He’d let his feet carry him forward thoughtlessly, though now he sat at the edge of a precipice, watching the sky darken around him. His cattleman hung heavy at his side. The wind bit and tore into him, chilling him down to his bone, but Arthur could hardly feel it. Maybe it was the morphine that slowly dragged itself through his system, remnants he had stolen from Swanson. He polished off the bottle of whiskey, but couldn’t feel that either. 

John would make it, but he wouldn’t be the only one. Abigail, Jack, Tilly, Karen, Mary-Beth; all those had heeded his urging to flee while they could, they would make it too. Gone, pulled away from this life while they still had a chance to forge something different. He’d given them all he had, and they took it. Those who didn’t, well... didn’t. 

Dutch would spiral further and deeper into madness; the best of the gang slipped through his fingers, Arthur’s quiet betrayal would go unanswered as each of them ducked in turn from Dutch’s grasp and away from the prying eyes of the law. Some would stay. Bill, Javier, and Micah would remain by his side until they couldn’t. Dutch would chase them off, too, haunted by the specters of twenty-odd years. A decade or so down the line he would be forced to face the most painful reminder of his shortcomings, the pair of them dreadfully alone on that icy cliff.

He’d try to find Arthur, intent on exacting his vengeance, but never would. It was a half-hearted attempt at best; a show, maybe. Or maybe he had really lost himself so greatly that his time at Arthur’s bedside was swallowed by the darkness that swirled in his head. John would send a few letters that would go unopened in the hopes that, maybe, one might reach the man he'd considered a brother. He’d give up too, sooner or later. His efforts, too, were performative; the lingering hope of a man desperate to see a happy ending where he knew there couldn’t be one. 

And Arthur would be forgotten on his own terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for this one, folks! Let me know what you think, y'all know I melt over comments ♡


End file.
